Dinner with Hamlet
by L'oiseau-lyre
Summary: A story which has the phantom moving into a writer's damp cellar with Christine, a prying milkman fond of philosophy, said writer, his angry wife and an admiring psychologist. And ducks.
1. Intro

**This was originally intended as a Shakespeare fiction but I could not help wanting to put the phantom in it. It's basically nonsense, but please tell me what you think of it. The phantom will arrive in the next chapter, which hopefully will be up tomorrow or later today.**

**Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera does not belong to me, nor does Hamlet. **

**But I do claim Mr. Postman, his family, friends and psychologist.**

* * *

The next in line was a writer of fiction. He slumped in his chair and had a defeated air that went well with his slender frame and delicate features. I mustered up my most professional air. "Mr. Postman, I believe. Do tell me why you want to see me." He smiled at me sadly.

"No offence meant but I would much rather not see you. Or" he added. "Nothing but see you. Your outward appearance is pleasing; it is the speaking part which I rather resent." I was but mildly surprised at this statement as, being a psychiatrist, I came along this kind of attitude a lot, although it was not always so openly pronounced. "I see. What made you come then?"

"Who, you mean. My wife. But what made who do it, you will want to ask."

"What? Who?" I had trouble following his train of thoughts. It had been a long day. Mr. Umbrella, who thought he was a bonnet, had tried to hang himself on the hat stand. After that he settled on trying to make me wear him, but he was not my style.

"It is my job. She told me just yesterday that it causes me to take up immoral and dangerous habits." Mr. Postman imparted this to me with a very solemn look on his face. His drooping eyelids, I thought, did much more likely derive from a particularly calm nature than they were a sign for a lascivious disposition. His gaze never once wavered to the picture of a naked woman that was hanging behind me, opposite to him. My secretary had placed it there prior to his entrance. I thought there might be something learned by the patients reaction to it.

"Why would she think that?"

"That is beyond me. But she told me she wants me to go and see you if I wanted to go on seeing her."

"Those were her words?" I asked. I imagined someone pronouncing this rashly and in an agitated manner and failed, creating a knot in my tongue at the very thought of it.

"No. But I joined her many fragmented pieces of a speech to form something more whole and coherent. That makes her look more sophisticated." I snapped back into work modus at this, training was kicking in.

"Is it important to you that the world knows her as a sophisticated woman?" I queried hopefully.

"Absolutely not. It would not do on closer acquaintance. It is much better that the world learns the worst at the very beginning." He prompted. "But she does not understand this, so I humour her against my better knowledge."

I wished he would use exclamation marks more often. They went so well with the question marks, which in their turn went so well with my job. I stared. "First things first" I muttered under my breath and made a mental note to approach that subject again at a later meeting.

"Indeed. So, once again, what do you think is it that revolts her about your job? You are an author, I gather?" I asked with dawning suspicion. "What kind of books do you write?" He shot a mildly disgusted look from below his tired lids.

"I write fiction, Miss Day. There is nothing immoral about fiction. Most non-fictional literature out there is revoltingly perverted. There is always something disturbingly immoral about facts. But in fiction there is no such thing as bad morals - however _bawdy_ the narrative it is still very much fictional and has as such a moral standard of its own. One may frown upon it but it's basically a harmless _what if_."

"I strongly disagree, personally and professionally. If my patients' fictions had a moral standard of their own I would not be needed." I objected.

He shrugged. "But that is madness, not art."

"I don't think so. Indeed, I don't think you think so." I replied after a moments thought. "Moreover I am beginning to suspect that you do not mean anything you said to me. You, Mr. Postman are an Oscar Wilde persona."

He stiffened and for once gave up his defeated posture.

"Try to put a label on me, if you want. File me away, if you will. _Call me what instrument you will though you fret me, you cannot play upon me_!" he cried. All artists are alike. Tell a musician that his compositions are considered to belong to the classical genre and he will smash his violin on your head and declare himself a rock star. I was finally growing weary of this. Somehow we had come to Hamlet, which – professionally - was profoundly interesting, but I had yet to hear the cause of his distemper. I had half a mind to tell him that he would surely bar the door upon his own liberty if he denied his grief to his friends.

"Why have you come here, Mr. Postman?"

He settled back in his chair and decided that there was no use arguing with me, for which I was immensely grateful. "It may be possible that I get lost in my own plots sometimes. In other's also."

"How does that show?"

"I become increasingly fictional." He said confidingly. "I think that is what has been worrying my wife. But I really cannot help it."

"What symptoms are there to being fictional?"

"To explain this you must know that I write nonsense."

I felt bad for him. "You must not say that. I am sure you write well enough!" I assured him soothingly.

He felt the urge to explain himself. "You mistake my meaning. I literally write literal nonsense as a plot device. The world today is so very much devoid of sense that absurdity has become the noblest kind of realism. Are you acquainted with my _Donkey Pyjama_ series? It has become somewhat popular, you know."

The author of _Donkey Pyjama_! I had always suspected that the name of Hollis Hit had to be a pseudonym. But this was remarkable. I thought I should have to have him sign some extra paperwork. Who knew what his signature might be worth a few years from hence.

"I have read your books very thoroughly, Mr. Postman. I have to inform you that what you wrote must be the most advanced nonsense yet. It is profoundly silly!" I regarded him admiringly, knowing very well that I was not being a very good psychiatrist today.

"Thank you." He bowed his head, a faint flush in his cheeks. He was not yet used to the success. But his finely cut jacket and the expensive watch indicated that he was quite used to and at ease with the wealth that accompanied it. "However, my art takes its toll on me. I hope I have not become very silly by now, as I try to keep the silliness restricted to my books, but I do get overwhelmed by my characters at times. I develop them very carefully. That is not what nonsense is about, however, so when I've done making them unique I start making them nonsensical by stripping them of their common character traits and more serious habits." He illustrated this progress with his hands and formed a character out of the air, regarding it fondly before making fuzz about turning it into nonsense. I watched him curiously. There is always something very attractive about madness in great ones.

"I also change them a lot to fit them to the storyline. I believe all this creative garbage returns to plague the inventor. I, Miss Day, am a man covered in fictional debris!" he concluded dramatically. I stared at him once again and he stared right back at me as if challenging me. I took courage in the thought that psychiatrists had, in a way, always been binmen for overflowing imagination.

"And for your everyday life this means…?"

"The death-sentence." By now he seemed to be almost enjoying himself, in spite of his previously expressed dislike of talking to me. "You see I pick up all this stuff. I mean, it must have been in my head before, because I invented it, but now it is quite disordered and I am at loss as to keep it in check."

"Would you care to specify this?" I suggested, feeling slightly useless.

"I belch."

"Excuse me?" Genius often serves as an excuse for many evil things. But not belching.

"Or rather, I used to belch for month after I made M. Richardson stop."

"Mr. Richardson? The baker in Donkey P.? Why would you make him belch in the first place? It's so not his style!"

"No, that is why I made him stop. I could not help writing him like that. Do you believe in muses? I certainly do. And that's why my characters must be written as they reveal themselves to me." He extended a long finger to lecture me some more but I ungratefully stopped him.

"So you started belching in Mr. Richardson's place."

"I did. My wife was not at all supportive in this time of trial. She thought I did it on purpose, just to vex her. As if I could not have found less disgusting means to do _that_!" he went on in a haughty manner. "I did not leave the house till it wore off. I am a martyr in my field of work, Miss Day, a martyr."

I shifted in my seat and covertly viewed my watch. As interesting as this was, I felt that to be of any kind of use I would first have to do some serious research work. My mind was already on the possibilities should his story turn out to be true. Just fancy Shakespeare picking his nose publicly for weeks just because it would not fit to Prospero.

"And I am not only charged by this waste of invention, but also by the completed product itself. I woke up this morning thinking I was a robin featured my latest book. I ended of jumping out of my bedroom window. Gladly I hit the gardener before I hit the garden."

A picture of Shakespeare waking up convinced that he was the thane of Cawdor, king that shall be, came to my mind, but I shrugged it off.

"But there's another thing that may be considered unsettling." He leaned in. "I have been visited at nights. My wife was very upset about it."

I did not make an inappropriate comment. "And by whom, if I may ask?"

"Hamlet and Ophelia."

Once again I stared at him blankly. Text thing he would tell me the phantom of the opera lived in his cellar.

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Author's note: Sorry for the lack of a phantom, as I said, next chapter. Christine and Raoul, will visit, too! And sorry also for grammar or spelling faults, I'm not a native speaker.

I remain, &c E.L.

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	2. Plastic Ducks And A Perfect Cellar

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

**I have to admit I don't like this chapter too much, but Erik's in it. Suggestions and opinions are very welcome and much valued. Please, tell me if I should continue this or if I should just shut up. I can cope with criticism. Really. grrr :-) No, honest!**

**I'm not used to writing fan fiction, so I don't know if I am to disclaim once again… well just to be sure… I don't own the phantom!**

Mr. Harry Postman thought that this day had gone very well. He had clearly impressed the psychiatrist, calmed his wife and evaded meeting the prince of Denmark. It was not as if he would not feel honoured by the attentions of one of the greatest fictional characters ever, but when Hamlet was around he felt more than usually insane and he had sworn himself to never fully lose his grip on reality. It went well with the audiences but not with his publisher. He had told him that if he ever again brought a living chicken to a meeting… but that was beside the point now. The point was that he was currently enjoying his newfound fiction-free time in his ridiculously expensive living room, staring at ridiculously expensive piece of art: His wife.

Shirley was younger than he was, but he had not allowed that to stand in his way when they married. Now they were married this was the only thing that was not in his way. She probably despised him, although he doubted that she thought about him long enough to decide since she never seemed to have anything but dinner parties on her mind.

On the sofa, reading a book was their daughter. The only annoying thing about her was her lack of silliness. How could anyone be ten years old and so grave? He had never mustered up that much gravity in his thirty-five years. She didn't like the bible. She thought it was frivolous.

"There's somebody at the door." Little Emilia said with a composed voice.

He had closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, but obviously he fooled no one, as he felt his wife sending him an angry glare before she left the room for the front door. Harry yawned.

After only a few seconds she came back in, looking totally flabbergasted. "There's a man with a mask. He says he wants to speak with you."

"Why didn't you tell him I was out?" he demanded, annoyed by her lack of common sense.

"He… he was very intense about it." She replied rather tonelessly and motioned for him to hurry up. Muttering to himself he heaved himself into a standing position and went out to meet the man that dared disturb his evening with his masked presence.

He was met with a glare. Before he could take in more than a white mask and a black cloak, his visitor had pushed him inside again and banged the door shut behind them, all the while grabbing Harry's collar with a tight grip.

Harry was too shocked to put up much of a fight so he just let out a pained grunt.

"You must excuse me. I do not intrude stranger's houses on a regular basis." The stranger whispered with a dangerously silky voice and a slight accent. "In fact you could say I am new to the field. Nonetheless, we do surely not want to upset your family while talking business, so would you be so kind as to lead the way into your study?"

Finding that the stranger had softened his grip enough for him to speak Harry cleared his throat and replied hoarsely: "Of course... The study. Whatever you say…"

He considered adding a warning, but discarded the idea quickly. His study was not for the unprepared since it was the place where he wrote and thus fictionally overcharged. He led the scowling stranger upstairs opening the door carefully before entering very slowly. The place looked as messy as hell and it was quite as hot, too. Books and plastic ducks (they were a constant source of inspiration to him) were scattered on the floor of the medium-sized room and his Louis XIV style furniture. Two enormous chairs stood in the left hand corner, amidst lots of more or less used gadgets of all kinds and sizes. He half expected to find the furry science fiction animal that he had left there an hour or so ago, but it seemed to have either vanished into nothingness or worked its way back into his imagination. Sighing he motioned the stranger to sit down, dropping into the smaller chair himself.

"You see before you a desperate man, Mr. Mask. There is nothing you could possibly say that would surprise me. Do you want money?"

The stranger had refused to sit down. He stood quite stiffly in the middle of the room, surveying the room from behind the mask, with what Harry guessed to be a look of mild amusement. His voice however had a hard edge to it.

"No. Pecuniary matters are of little importance to me." He seemed to struggle with himself, but come to a conclusion. "What I want from you is quite simple, but requires some explanation. I am very uncomfortable with that. I must tell you that for me it seemed far easier to simply put your life to an end, Mr. Postman. But unfortunately my fiancé is very easy to upset and she talked me out of taking this, I have to admit slightly uncivilized, course of action. I am in need of your cellar."

Despite his earlier statement Harry was quite taken aback. "Excuse me?"

"I remember faintly that I told you there was to be an explanation. Do not try my patience!"

Harry fell silent immediately. He was wondering if this ghostly man was again some sort of fictional outburst of his. This was really getting worse every day. He should call his psychiatrist tomorrow. Perhaps there was something wrong with his relationship to his mother.

"Your cellar, Mr. Postman, is just perfect as a refuge for a man such as I. It is dry, it is ridiculously spacious and it is wet. I never thought I would find a place quite like my opera home again, but when he told me about your lodgings Hamlet taught me to hope…"

Here Harry interrupted him with an exasperated cry of: "I _knew_ it! You are fictional!" He earned a disapproving shrug.

"Do not be so narrow-minded. But in a way I suppose you are right, however, let us speak some more of that cellar of yours…"

"No! Leave me alone! I had enough trouble already…" his voice trailed away when he saw the phantom – for it was, of course, the phantom – pull out a short lasso, which he twirled around his fingers absentmindedly.

"You are more unreasonable than I expected! I come to you with the sincere wish to acquire your cellar for my future bride and you receive me with an astonishing lack of courtesy. My fiancé is very keen on living in your brutish country, and I would do anything for her. But old habits die hard. I need a lair, Mr. Postman, and you own just the place. If you insist of being a nuisance, however…" He gently picked up one of the inevitable plastic ducks and placed the noose around its head.

Suddenly a knock on the door startled them both. Emilia entered calmly, scanning their surprised features. Her eyes came to rest on the plastic duck. She frowned.

"Your friends seem to me as unreasonable as you yourself, daddy." She scolded.

Harry frantically gestured, but Erik laid down the duck calmly.

"It is for demonstrational use, you see. Let me introduce myself: My name is Erik and I am moving into your cellar."


	3. To be or not to be

**Chapter 3.**

Author's note: Thanks for the reviews! Well here is the next chapter! But before anyone reads it - I have never actually seen a milkman. Do they have cars? That would seem advisable to me. Are there milkmen in London? It it something you do all day or just in the mornings? These are just some of the questions that arose as I was working on this chapter. You see, therefore, that no accuracy can be expected concerning the milkman. However, tell me what you think of it! Oh, and the phantom of the opera does not belong to me.

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The milkman sighed. And then he sighed again. As he made his way through the busy London streets he felt lost, almost as if he did not really exist. Was he or was he not? That was the question wasn't it? And he was certainly not getting an answer of those blank faces buying his milk. It had all started when he woke up last Friday and realized that he had no proof for his existence. It came as quite a shock really. When he was younger there was no time for irrelevant questioning, and he felt nothing but disdain for whimpering poets. Not that he had ever actually met one, but he didn't question the disdain either.

However, nowadays he had plenty of time at his disposal. People bought their milk at the supermarket. Perhaps, he thought, it was a personal thing. He was not a pretty sight to open the door to, he had to admit. He would, in his youth, never have guessed how much sex-appeal would be required to make a living.

So, was he or was he not? People certainly didn't seem to remember him, that much was clear, but that was not the point. If he did not exist, neither did they. Everything else was just being pedantic.

He made his way up a very hint of a hill, to his one and only customer in this area a Mr. Harry Postman and his family. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered, but that Postman guy was rather famous and sometimes he got a bit of interesting gossip. It kept his mind off things. It was something to tell his wife when they both came home. He wondered if it was her sex-appeal that enabled her to earn thrice as much as she was. But he wasn't being a chauvinist about it. He kept his job because he knew not what else to do, really. He had never had many hobbies, and his milk was a nice companion for the long strolls. It never complained when he got intense about those subjects dearest to his heart – his fellow humans' dirty linen and philosophy.

He arrived at the smug little house of Mr. Postman, belled and waited for Mrs. Postman or little Emilia to open up. He wondered if Mr. Postman felt any better. His wife who was pleasingly chatty had told him that his work was getting over his head. He had been given proof for that just a few days ago when Harry had opened the door shouting: "Go and hunt down that wale and leave me alone you silly old bat!" Recognizing him he had been quite embarrassed, but refused to explain the incidence. He had just muttered that this new book of his was going to be the death of him and went back in. The milkman found these few times when he had met Mr. Postman personally very inspiring, as a fan of his books he was excited about these valuable insights into the work in progress. Never before had he experienced a writing progress with such an active side to it. _His_ claims on literary fame were due to many unpublished essays about the loss of trust in society and his Opus magnum, a book about the uncertainty of reality that he had started just yesterday. He would dedicate it to Mr. Postman that much was sure.

After a few seconds the door swung up to reveal a beaming Emilia. The milkman was rather confused, as he was used to seeing her grave and earnest. But as soon as she seemed to recognize him her smile faded.

"Good morning." She said, polite as usual despite of her obvious disappointment. Well whom did she expect? He scanned the interior of the entrance hall curiously. He always did, not knowing what to he was expecting, but he certainly had not anticipated a tall, thin man with a black cape and a white leather mask covering half of his face that glared at him.

Forgotten was all thought of milk. He never really liked it anyway.

"Whoe, masquerade, eh?" he beamed. Now that was something to gossip about.

He was met with icy silence, except for the approaching steps of who turned out to be Mr. Postman himself. He was clad in a blue bathrobe and looked more than usually small and worried, his expression slightly deranged. At first he didn't see him, but gloomily stared at the masked man.

"You said noon. I am sure you said noon! Has it come to this? That I must entertain guests – strangers - in my own house dressed like _this_? Well, where is she?" He stopped when he caught sight of the milkman grinning like a maniac. It was a very good day for him. No more philosophical questioning today, it was Showtime.

Harry let out a sigh of profound suffering and levelled his gaze on the phantom for a second before focussing once more on the milkman.

"I might be slightly paranoid about this but I feel it is my duty to inform you that the Phantom of the Opera does not belong to me. I do not own any of the characters; it's all property of Andrew Lloyd Webber. Or Gaston Leroux. Or is it? Well, however, it's not mine so please don't sue me. Times are really hard when you can sue a man for his hallucinations."

Emilia almost cried out: "Dad! You are not supposed to tell anyone!" She saw Erik still glaring at the grinning milkman, who was sure he heard her mutter something venomous about adults under her breath. "Sorry, Monsieur, he is always so very thoughtless and the last few days were rather hard for him. I'm sure Christine will arrive soon. It's still very early."

The milkman felt it was time to sell his milk and leave, indeed, he was sure of it, but he just could not bring himself to do it. Staring at the phantom and turning Mr. Postman's words over in his head he came to a shocking conclusion.

"You don't mean to say that this is the man with the eyes that both threaten and adore?" he blurted out. Not even his wife knew of his secret love for musicals. He dreamt of blinking lights and applause and glamour. It contrasted so nicely with his everyday life. And he felt he was very qualified for Broadway. He had never been able to draw a line between his real life and fiction. That was why he loved gossip so much and kept selling milk in a silly white apron with the picture of a happy cow on it.

Emilia seemed quite disgusted by his choice of words. She mustered the phantom. "Well, right now they appear – to me – to be more threatening than anything."

The phantom took a step forward. "I advise you to forget that you ever saw me. I don't wish to hurt you."

The milkman was confused, he took great pride in his versatility with words, but there was one thing he could never get the hang of and that was irony.

"He meant that just now didn't he?" he asked Emilia.

She thought it through. "I fear he didn't."

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence spent on the doorstep Harry decided to settle matters.

"Would you excuse us now? We await the arrival of a young lady. Her fiancé loves her so much that he wants to lock her up in my cellar." Before he could more the phantom had gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, right. You know what's the hardest thing, milk-fellow? I think it's in my soul the true distortion lies. I dare say this man is a product of my imagination." The hand shifted barely noticeable, and Mr. Postman wisely fell silent.

The eyes of the milkman lit up. "Tell me about it. I have written a book about this problem!"

"You have? I would love to read it… Ouch! But we can, er, discuss this another time. My, my, is it so late? It was so lovely to talk to you. If you will excuse us now?"

The phantom slammed the door in the milkman's face, but his smile did not alter. A very fine day indeed. Just as he turned to leave, he heard Emilia say in a voice that indicated that she had enough of the silliness: "It's no use to hide him from mother at all! She keeps the laundry down there!"


	4. I lost the prince of Denmark, Sunny!

**Chapter 4**

Author's note: Tie-Dyed Trickster had a great idea how this story should develop, and in order to make it happen we first need this chapter, so I put it together rather quickly. Next chapter there will be Hamlet with a special hat and Erik with the laundry. Tell me what you think of it.

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The next in line was a writer of fiction. He slumped in his chair and had a forlorn and desperate air that went well with his nervous tick in the eye. I was looking very professional today. Teacher's look. A woolly pullover and posh learned looking glasses. Underneath I wore a pink tank top that read "Make love not war" on the front to demonstrate that society had not yet destroyed me completely. I felt much better for putting up a fight. He had said nothing since he had come in some minutes earlier. I found that endearing.

Finally he brought himself to utter: "It always upsets me when you just change the narrator." He said that in a tone that let show his disappointment. I did not know what to reply but he did not seem to expect an answer as he went on immediately. "It is getting worse. The phantom of the opera lives in the cellar now." He made a face as if there was more but I thought we might as well start there.

"Why, did I say that aloud?"

He stared. "Say what?"

"Last week? When you were here? I wondered what would happen to you next. That was one of the things that came to my head. Does that happen often?"

He seemed confused. "He just moved in."

"I mean that fictional characters visit you after other people spoke of it?"

"You did not speak of it! Are you trying to tell me I am mad, is it that?" he was getting angry again. I did not mind. He was surely under a lot of stress. "Moreover this notion is just silly. My daughter sees him too – she even helped to bring the laundry up."

"How endearing. She must be very protective of you. But, you must know that from my point of view, as a psychologist involving your daughter in your… _issues_ can be devastative. I say that only to help you!"

"You do not understand" he said and seemed to come to himself again. Straightening his back he went on: "He wants to bring his wife. To the cellar I mean. To be quite honest I had not much of a choice but to let him have his way. I considered his being fully fictional, but a man cannot argue with a Punjab lasso."

"A what?"

"Punjab. It is, I believe a part of India. He uses it to…" he could not make himself say it. "Pardon me. A man in my position – and my current situation – learns to value the power of written and spoken words." I was pleased that he seemed to have returned to his boasting self again. I nodded and told him to go on with his story.

"He wants to live in the cellar with his wife. They used to live and work in an opera. I can only hope that they won't keep up that hobby in my cellar. My wife would be sure to hear it. And that is, dear Miss Day, where the laundry becomes important!"

I decided to take notes at this point.

"My wife keeps the laundry in the cellar. Emilia wanted to tell her right away but that is not the way I work. I try to keep my work strictly separate from my private life. You must see why! I cannot have my wife's lingerie hanging in the lair of a monster."

"I noticed how you said monster just now. What kind of monster does he represent to you then? Do you feel guilty for hiding it in the cellar?"

I think I should not have said that. The nervous tick in his eye returned. "Have you been listening at all? I do not want him to hide in that rotten cellar! He moved in! And just now Emilia is being introduced to his wife to be, whoever she be."

I decided I would drop the monster subject for now too. Again I was not being a good psychiatrist, but I kind of enjoyed his ranting.

"Do you feel comfortable leaving your daughter in the care of a man, who, assuming that he has somehow managed to exist is certainly searched for by the police?"

He glared at me. "Of course not. I was supposed to be there but after the milkman had seen him it appeared as if there was still some time before that Daé person arrived so I retreated to my study to try and calm my nerves as my wife left the house to meet with her special girly friends and Emilia forced the phantom to eat something."

"Well, and then?"

"Then I noticed that Hamlet was gone."

"Gone?"

"Disappeared! Can you imagine what I feel like now? I think I just lost the most important tragic hero that ever… ever came over to dinner! I figured that Emilia was on top of the situation and left immediately."

I could not but feel slightly honoured. "And how am I supposed to help?"

He pressed his hands to his temples. "I don't know. Tell me that he is fictional. Tell me that I cannot lose a fictional character! Or even better – tell me I am mad! I changed my mind about that; tell me I am out of my tiny little mind." He looked at me expectantly, but I needed time to access the situation.

"What do you mean when you say disappeared? If he is not… visiting you anymore than that seems to me to be a good sign for your mental health."

"I looked it up. In his play, I mean. But there was no sign of him. I know that he used to go on about resolving into a dew but I never thought he would really do it!"

I was beginning to get confused again, and moreover I was so caught up in his story that for a moment I felt quite anxious for the prince of Denmark.

"I think you must calm down for a moment. Tell me, do you really believe that what you are experiencing is happening in what – do not call me narrow-minded – we would call reality?" I asked.

It seemed as if he did not now what to say. At last he offered: "My daughter talks to him."

"You must take into account that children always try to please their parents."

He stared.

I stared, suddenly feeling as if we had finally made a step forward. Little did I know.

"Look it up then." He ordered suddenly. "A man like me can endure much, Miss Day, but I must know if I lost it once and for all!"

Wondering if there was some psychological reason why I should not do this I slowly stood up and wondered if I still had that Complete Works volume in my desk. Of course I had, and in an instant he was right behind me, urging me to read on. I wondered when I had become so small; Mr. Postman was hovering over me, himself not normally an awe inspiring figure. I turned the pages slowly, feeling as if it was a pregnancy test. We gaped at the first page of Hamlet. He was gone indeed. I felt nauseous all of a sudden.

"Mary!" I shrieked. Mr. Postman had an almost smug look on his face. He smiled, and although the smile wasn't pleasant it had a certain adventurous edge to it.

"I lost the prince of Denmark." He said. "Miss Day – what is your first name Miss Day?"

"Roepnaam. But people call me Sunny." I replied tonelessly.

"Sunny, I lost the prince of Denmark."

Mary came in. Nice, friendly Mary. She would tell us we were not mad.

"Mary what do you see here?"

Mary raised an eyebrow. She had been working for me for ages. She looked down, and answered in a patronizing voice: "Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, Miss Day, by William Shakespeare. As you know very well."

I stared. This was becoming quite a habit with me.


	5. There's a divinity that shapes our ends

**Chapter 5**

**Author's note: Well, here we go – ****The phantom of the opera does not belong to me. For the idea of the meeting that will take place in this chapter and one of those to come as well as the milkman's name I have to thank tie-dyed Trickster! (/waves/ "Thank you!")**

**Please review, readers!**

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For the first time in ages he was preparing dinner for his wife. It wasn't a want of affection or skill that kept him from doing it more regularly; it was a lack of concentration that embarrassed him. He kept getting distracted by the television programmes or by quotations that came to his mind and that just needed to be checked on, and when he returned to reality the carefully prepared chicken had turned into a disgusting black lump. It didn't help either that he was a vegan, but his wife doted on everything animal. That was why he had entered a staring contest with the duck he was trying to turn into a tasty dish. It had of course lost its head in a progress of commercialisation, but he just stared at what remained to be stared at. He had sent his wife to prepare the table, because he felt ashamed of his own horror of a dead duck. Picturing the innocent creature it had been before just made it worse. His hands were slightly shaking when he touched the goosy, cold skin. "I can do this." He told the duck. The duck emanated silence like a smell. Speaking of the smell – he opened a window, knowing that he was procrastinating. His wife thought that being a vegan milkman was rather hypocritical of him, but he didn't see it like that. He had written an essay concerning this dilemma and considered it sufficiently solved.

He returned to look at the duck, the cool clear night air contrasting with the warm lamp light.

"You know it is time now, don't you?" he whispered, so that his wife would not hear him.

The duck retained its cool exterior, as if to say that time had come and gone already or it would right now be quacking angrily.

He half closed his eyes and went to work while still talking to the duck.

"I love her more than I love you."

And then it was done. An intense smell of, well, dinner began to mix with the fresh air and he had to sit down for a bit. Despite the fact that he had now officially lost his appetite he could not help but feel a bit proud.

"Harold?" He jumped. But it was not the duck, calling him to account for his deeds; it was his wife with the same intention. "Where have you left the car? It is not in the garage."

He had been to excited to drive after his encounter with Mr. Postman. He had gone straight to the supermarket to pick up the unfortunate duck and some food for himself, to celebrate a day of unusual excitement.

After telling her it was just up the road he decided he could keep talking to the duck for a bit longer.

"I mean, just look at the things that they have on television these days." He began, delicately picking up a fork to prod the duck with. "Virtual adrenaline is the most advanced drug of our time. At least you won't have to face that. Mark my words - but I am not getting into that. Who knows maybe I still do not exist after all. Now that would be lucky for you, wouldn't it?"

But that reminded him of his still unproved existence, a problem that had escaped his mind thinking about the peculiar appearance of the phantom of the opera. People would, if he judged them right, think him a mad fellow to celebrate seeing a man with a mask and a cape, but that did not matter to him, he was quite convinced that it was the real thing. If it wasn't, well perhaps he wasn't either so they had something in common. Still, it would probably be wiser to keep this from his wife. At first he had been keen to tell her but he was beginning to doubt his decision. Someone who ate ducks could not possibly see the complexity of the case. He however felt the full weight of the ambiguity between what is and what seems to be.

"Ultima?" he called out, preparing the sauce. There was no way he was going to try it, so he grabbed a spoon and waited for her to test it. She came in, yawning, but looking altogether as gorgeous as ever. He sighed. The dinner was not only to celebrate. He felt he had to make something up to her, and he also feared that her boss at the theatre she worked for as an actress would prove a classical senex amans, to use a fitting term. His jealousy was not to be fought with thoughts of the uncertainty of human life. He was quite sure he would he jealous even if they both did not exist.

She delicately tried the soup and rewarded him with a wide smile. "You have not been watching the television?" she said. "Or reading Seneca, or whatever? Darling!" She kissed him affectionately. "How was your day?"

He opened his mouth just to close it again. Think carefully, he ordered himself before settling with a half truth.

"Quite interesting. I met a very strange person at Mr. Postman's place, dressed like the phantom of the opera. It seemed as if he was going to move into their cellar with his wife."

Ultima was intrigued. "No way! How peculiar. But I told you that this was quite a crazy family. She wears a pink hat to her yellow jacket!"

He nodded. "Mr. Postman wants to read what I wrote on the subject of human existence!" he proudly added certain of her approbation. Indeed she smiled brightly again. "Congratulations! Perhaps he can help you find a publisher? But wait till those strange persons have settled in until you ask, I daresay he has much on his hands then. Why do they move into the cellar?"

It was Harold's conviction that it was because the phantom lived, everyone knew that, in a lair. "Perhaps they haven't got enough money for a room."

Ultima snorted. "Oh please! Mr. Postman is a celebrity; they are probably rock stars or something. Do you know their name?"

"His name is Erik, hers Christine." He answered, hoping that she would open up to the idea that the phantom of the opera lived in their neighbourhood. But he was disappointed.

"They must have changed their names then. But it sounds as if we would have plenty of gossip to talk about then!" He made a face, and returned to his task of preparing the sauce. He would have to keep his theories to himself then.

"Rehearsals for Maria Stuart have begun" she informed him. "Guess who is going to play the title role?" Brightening up, he gave his heartfelt congratulations.

She sat on the edge of the kitchen table, clearly ready to continue the conversation when they were startled by the doorbell.

They exchanged pained glances. He feared that her fellow actors had decided it was time for a group hug again. He thought it was nerve-wrecking how much theatre people liked to touch each other. It got worse the nearer they got to the opening night. And he never had the nerve to tell them to get lost, especially as he could see very well that it was most of the time painfully artificial. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

Ultima seemed to have the same thought as she threw him a glance that clearly asked for forgiveness. The alarm went of, reminding them to take the duck out of the oven. Ultima motioned for him to go and open up while she took care of the duck.

Resigning, he went to see who it was.

He seemed to have come out of the theatre all right. He wore an Elizabethan style nobleman suit and a wide brimmed hat under which a pale earnest face looked out. He also had a rapier. He gulped and greeted the visitor tentatively. The man was obviously trying to speak but he had not the words for it.

At last: "H. O. Ratio?" His name was accompanied by a grave look.

Harold nodded; the figure looked so princely in his attire and bearing that he felt quite shy. If he was a colleague of his wife he had never seen him before, yet he seemed somehow familiar.

"Are you – ", he managed to say, but was interrupted in mid-sentence.

"Then there's a divinity that shapes our ends!" the apparition cried.


	6. A little night music

**Disclaimer: The phantom of the opera does not belong to me.**

* * *

He had a bad case of soundtrack tinnitus

He had a bad case of soundtrack tinnitus. Famous film and television tunes flashed through his mind, but he welcomed it as it kept him from thinking too hard. The language lay in ruins. He had a profound, archaic, deep, lurking, obnoxious fear welling inside of him and he gave it every adjective his suffering brain could come up with to keep the language working. There was no knowing what would happen if words failed him. Perhaps that is what happened to Hamlet. He should have stayed at the psychiatrist's. It was easier when there was somebody to talk to. He had resolved on not involving his daughter more than necessary, so he could not turn to her. He felt he owed it to his self-esteem. That is why he ignored that she was currently in the cellar chatting away with an ever so cheery she-phantom and her male counterpart. It would not do to feel guilty for that too. Neither did he fancy confessing everything to son belle femme, who had her French evening sitting and talking broken francais with all her posh matronly lady friends. He felt there was a certain humour in the fact that they were chatting away on the lair of a madman, but it was too tragic for a hearty laugh and too funny for a gloomy stare so he settled on carefully banging his head against the wall, so that he would not hurt himself. After some time he stopped. It was not comme il faut.

He looked at the wall. He counted. Emilia came in at 245 and her eyes scanned him disapprovingly so he tried to sit up and assume a cheerful smile but failing miserably with his mind still reeling.

"There is no time to be idle. Our affairs are in a terrible state." Her queer choice of words grounded him to some extend and he spoke at last, feeling guilty.

"You should not be taking care of all this."

She nodded. "Somebody, surely, has to. But I need your help now, as Christine has got this silly notion to come and see you to thank you. I could not convince her to wait a bit and I cannot even be sure if she is not running through the house unaccompanied this very moment. However" she said cheering up. "Mama is dressed as Madame Pompadour and they are too busy discussing her affair with the king to notice much at all. It is all quite garish."

He took a minute to gather his wits about him, dusting them of to restore some of their former glory.

"I will then..." he started. "…go and shoot him?"

"Whom?" she asked, taken aback.

"The king." A little revolutionary inside of him cheered. Oh yes, those were golden times.

Emilia sighed. "No. You will go and either meet Christine, or distract Madame Pompadour. But I have to warn you: If you keep talking like this maman will want to call the police."

He had managed to swallow an aspirin (Aspirin does NOT belong to me, by the way) and shook himself like an old dog. There was nothing as maddening as two hours of restless rest.

"Ha!" he said with renewed vigour. "Who will not be likely to give much for the word of an 18th century bird of paradise!" Emilia smiled faintly and opened the door for him.

Submissively he tumbled to the stairs, feeling as if he was suffering from a cold. From below he could hear the inhabitants of Vanity Fair chatting freely. Tea was consumed, he mused, gossip exchanged, and he was surely made fun of. But perhaps it was preferable to talking to a fiction. He heard rather than saw Emilia close the door and slip into her own room. Before he had made up his mind about what to do next a young woman in a white dress floated through the hall. Seeing him she gave a sweet smile that he could only answer with a rather sour one. She had big brown eyes and a radiant, cheery countenance at which he could but marvel, as she was now to reside in a wet cellar. In that thin, revealing dress she would surely catch a cold.

The prospect of living in a cellar was, to him, more sickening than anything but she greeted him with an angelic voice: "Are you the man I must thank for our beautiful new home? I had so wished to go to England, but Erik is not very sociable." She uttered this with a small sigh.

"I thought as much." He replied, trying to shake of the returning confusion. A few moments silence was spent thinking of something to say. But she was obviously not quite through thanking him.

"You cannot imagine what it means for me to be able to live here with him. Paris was becoming too full of memories…" Her eyes looked troubled. As he still kept his mouth tightly shut she went on: "And you have a lovely daughter! She helped us settling in. The bags with our things have of course not yet arrived but once we had cleared the rooms from…" she blushed "your laundry, it became quite comfortable. I would ask you to join us for dinner but Erik and I need some time for ourselves now, you do surely understand?"

He gave her a wry smile. "I will survive the mortification, Miss. There are however some things I need to make clear" he said. "My wife must never see either of you. She had been quite upset with Hamlet already and I cannot bring her into it. It is bad enough that Emilia is partaking in my struggles for sanity."

She only stared at him in a friendly yet blank way.

"You see, there is the distinct possibility that you are the product of my overactive imagination. My psychologist said so, although we were both a bit confused about everything at the end. But perhaps that was my imagination, too?" Sunny had closed down her office for the day and announced that she would consult some books about this matter.

Christine cocked her head, obviously oblivious as to what he was trying to tell her.

"Are you mad?" she asked in her dove-like way. "My fiancée knows a lot about that affliction. He is struggling to overcome it so hard, the poor pet."

"I noticed the former, too, though I cannot agree about the last part."

"He really does!" she cried earnestly. "Otherwise I would never have agreed to marry him! You will see if you only get to know him better."

He suppressed a nervous shudder. "I am sure I will." Perhaps it was not a bad idea. Facing the abyss inside oneself, and all that. But he tried to remember what he wanted to do in the first place.

"Would you now please go back downstairs? You must be tired, and my wife is not to see you under any circumstances." He wanted to turn away but a small hand on his arm kept him.

"There is one thing, kind sir; I wanted to ask you about." Christine whispered confidingly.

Harry closed his eyes and waited for the next blow. It came anon.

"My Erik has written an opera on our moving away to a new live and all…"

"No! Not in my cellar!" he cried bluntly. "My wife…"

"Of course we cannot have an opera in you cellar it is not even furnished yet!" she laughed as if it was a very silly notion. "I only wanted to know if you had any contact to theatres or opera houses in the area."

He calmed. "Oh. Well, I have actually. I will see what I can do." He knew that was a lie, but he could concern himself with that later on. What mattered now was that he shut that pair up in the cellar and found a way to regain his balance. "Is there anything else? Then I would strongly advise you to rest."

She beamed at him again and kissed his cheek in a display of French manners. He wished all his new friends were as beautiful when they returned to plague the inventor. He mentally revised that sentence. He was not even the inventor. He had other people's creatures harassing him. His own characters had never been preposterous enough to attempt top live in his cellar.

"You have not by any chance met the prince of Denmark?" he asked her hopefully, but she denied. "Right then, I wish you a good…"

At this point he was disturbed by a shriek. He turned to find an immensely decadent lady with an expensive gown gaping at the sight of Christine. It took him a second to realize that she was not another fictional character but one of his wife's friends who had gone in search of the bathroom. Before he could say anything she shrieked again, expanding said shriek to let it end in a full-blown scream that brought the rest of the brigade to the scene immediately, so that the hall was packed with shrieking ladies and fine gowns. Christine smiled at them shyly. Harry groaned. He was not unrealistic. He knew it would get worse. And indeed the little crowd parted to reveal the finest gown of them all and in it Madame Pompadour, with a look that would have suited an enraged lioness. Surveying the scene to see what had interrupted her party her eyes suddenly lit up with anger when she laid eyes on the young woman beside him. She brandished a champagne glass as if she would have done with a sword. That surprised him. He saw why she would be angry with him, but he had not expected the Spanish Inquisition. But then again, who did? The mystery was solved when she pointed the glass at Christine who smiled on, undaunted by the angry glare.

"How dare you?" she screamed. Her round table muttered approvingly. "How dare you insult me so? And in front of all my friends!" Tears of humiliation and rage sprung to her eyes and a light bulb went on in his head.

"Oh dear, you are entirely mistaken!" he began and made a hasty step away from Christine who looked at him questioningly. "She…"

That was when the glass hit him, sending drops of champagne flying through the air and him to the floor.


	7. Oh dear

**Chapter 7:**

A/N: I'm truly sorry for the delay, and have no excuses really. My muses went on a vacation or took a part time job elsewhere, for all I know. Oh, and in the next chapter, there will be an angry phantom tobe dealt with. And, yes, he should appear more often, since this is supposed to be a phanphiction, but my own characters seem to have developed a life of their own.

I do not own the phantom of the opera, or the woman in white, or Hamlet. As a comforting afterthought: Original characters and plot, however, are mine!

* * *

I underwent a curious development. As a psychologist, I am proud to say I have some pretty posh sounding words for the different stages in store, but I'll be damned if I remembered any of them that evening. I went home early, taking my time on the streets ever afraid of crashing the car in my desolate condition. Mary had insisted that I drank a cup of tea before I left but for all the good it did I might as well have drunken coffee. I was shaking all over. That was of course what happened to you if you developed a crush for a client. Perhaps there is money to be made, making this into a film. It is slightly too embarrassing for academic papers. And now, don't come and tell me it wasn't obvious. I noticed, although you may say that this results from professional background information. Well, go back and check it then. (That you can is remarkable and yet quite natural for a story. A regular hypnosis-cinema.) The way that I have characterized myself, you probably do not have too much respect for my conduct and intelligence, I can well understand that. There is no use in trying to redeem myself, but I hope that my visit to the Postman's at least can be excused by the strain I was under. You do not yet know about that, of course, so I will shut up for the present and resume my story. (You see how I am a more interesting person for literature in my head, than I am in dialogue? It has always been like that, and it is sure not very helpful in my profession... anyway -)

I was still fairly beside myself when I returned to my house. It had, and what a cliché it was, started to rain and I was drenched by the time I had actually managed to shut out that demanding world, that had quite obviously driven me mad. Then the wondering started. No, that is not right – the wondering had actually never ceased, but it broke to the surface. I went quite a long way that evening, shivering on my little red sofa. It started with the need to clarify a few things. Was I in fact totally bonkers as I always feared I would become one day, or was this the kind of thing that would be quite funny when I finally figured it out? It lay in my nature to assume the first, so it remained to be solved how I felt about it. Could it be cured? I should know that shouldn't I? Perhaps it was because of Mr. Postman. One goes potty to sympathize with the other. You'd be surprised how often this happens.

What I was sure about was that I had seen that Hamlet had disappeared and Mary had not. Kudos for Mary, by the way - Ever the stout adviser. There were so many ways I could approach this, that the words quite failed me and I spent half an hour just gaping until I came to the conclusion that when I was mad there was nothing to do but to visit a colleague – and it was far to late for that, it was already dark outside - , if there wasn't I could act now. So shoving reason aside I changed into something warm and set about to draw out a plan. If Hamlet could disappear, as Mr. Postman said, then he could as well come over to dinner, just as he said. If Hamlet could come to dinner, than the phantom of the opera could move into his cellar and bring his wife. If there was Hamlet in his kitchen and a phantom in his cellar, I could go and check on that. Impeccable logic, the kind you can't get out of academic work, the kind you are born with. But as there would surely be no time to think once at his place (I could imagine scenes with his wife, his hallucinations, himself, and a certain giddiness in myself) I pre-thought it all through. Assuming there were no phantoms… well we go back to plan A… which included visiting colleagues. But if there were this would mean that words can become reality, a theory that has come up once or twice in the course of human evolution, there would be such a vast field of research open to my wondering eyes that I quite thought I would prefer this option.

I packed a notebook to make sure that if Hamlet let something slip about the sexual orientation of his inventor I would be the one to become rich and famous because of it. I'm sure Shakespeare would not have minded. I packed it, too, in case that one of Mr. Postman's inventions had to say something about what he likes in women. I do not like to fight for a lost cause, and there are few things more degrading than a woman grovelling at a man's feet. I sprinkled beer on my shirt in case that I would have to make excuses for my late visit and go back to plan A. So much for my reputation, but that was nothing compared to my self-esteem.

It was still raining when I went outside, and I examined myself in the rear mirror, searching for the fiery gaze of utter madness. There is no such thing as madness, really. I just have to mention this. There is no such thing as a fully sane and rational human being. So indeed, to stick to the point, what I saw in the rear mirror was not a sane and rational face, but it calmed me to see that my mascara was still in place. Which is in itself amazing, since it normally never is.

I drove to – yes- a known destination. I daresay it will not ameliorate the opinion you may or may not have of me to know that I knew where Mr. Postman lives. A crush can do that kind of thing to your memory – Mary had it neatly written down back at the office. The house was expensive and I had expected nothing less. From the outside I could not judge if a phantom would chose the cellar. Why not the attic? But then, madwomen traditionally lived in the attic, not phantoms. Perhaps I could live in the attic, I thought. I parked my car in front of his garage and sneezed violently.

At the same time, unfortunately, and this resulted in the ruin of his garage door. Such a nice way to start a visit, is it not?

I should not have worried though, for as I blushed furiously and jogged to his front porch I was met with a brigade of upset women in the half opened front door. They were cursing, like I would never have expected women of their neat dress code to curse and one of them was covered in blood. What an interesting life Mr. Postman must lead, I said to myself, and slightly envied him for it. The bloody woman cried and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, blocking the door.

"Excuse me" I said, returning to dialogue mode. They did not react, and I finally saw the one they were so energetically cursing: A young woman in white trembled visibly under their harsh treatment. Perhaps she came from a book, I deduced. Perhaps it was Laura Whatshername from the Wilkie Collins novel that had me on the edge of my seat of the sleepless night it took me to read it. I tried in vain to make out the reason for this uproar, when one out of the angry mob turned to me, as if I belonged to their circle.

"Shocking, isn't it? I would not have thought it of him." She gestured in the direction of something or someone out of my view. Before I could try to make out what it was I was startled by a pathetic wail from the woman covered in blood, and in the next second she was in my arms, near hysterics. I forgot where I was.

"Now, do calm down." I ordered authoritatively. "Everyone just calm down." I hesitated for a beat, and then added, as an afterthought: "I am a psychologist!" This came through to them, and they seemed to pull themselves together as if to appear sane. Like I did not see right through that. As I said there is nothing like sanity, only conventionality. I managed to steady the women in my arms that had in her turn managed to ruin my shirt.

"Is he badly hurt? Is he badly hurt?" she cried. "They cannot say I murdered him! The nerve! To bring that woman into my house!"

I stepped into the house and stopped dead in my tracks. There was poor Mr. Postman, fallen to the floor in a heap, and it was clearly his blood that had finished my shirt off. Oh dear. I was at his side in an instant – ruining my new trousers, too, a part of me registered – pulling his head in my lap and checking his pulse.

There was none and my heart stopped.

But obviously I knew not how to check a pulse, I realized, relieved and annoyed at the same time, when he drew a shaky breath. I had learned this; I must have had, since I was allowed to drive. But then again, I was not supposed to ruin other people's garages either. His eyes fluttered open and stared at me blankly. After a few seconds he focussed on something behind me.

"Oh no…"


	8. A Commotion

I am most sorry if somebody was expecting an update and was disappointed. I moved, got a new computer and there were lots of examinations that took up all of my time, with the result that I forgot all about this story until, well, now. This was written in a hurry and without the help of a betareader, but I felt I'd never finish this if I didn't update now. Forgive this and the silliness, if it is too pronounced.

Anyway, the phantom does not belong to me.

* * *

He had gained in importance what he had lost in sanity, the milkman suspected. This exchange pleased him tremendously, as he walked down the dark street with the prince of Denmark by his side.

"So, this world is not mine, and I am nought but a shadow, a fiction, here? And at the end of my play I will actually finish off most of the cast, including my girlfriend, her brother, my uncle and my mother?"

"That sums it up nicely, I'd say." the milkman replied and adjusted his hat.

"Curious."

The milkman felt that this allegedly mad royal dane was showing less outrage at this than he might have, and that his speech was becoming less refined and old-fashioned every second. "Your uncle was kind of responsible for your mother's death. And your brother-not-quite-yet-in-law forgave you most graciously, because he had really plotted to kill you. Well, but sorry anyway, must have been a great loss. Do you want to soliloquize? I would understand. I could turn around, you know, so that you feel less self-conscious."

"No thank you."

"Sure?" he probed hopefully.

"No, thank you."

They had almost reached the Postman's house, where a commotion seemed to have taken place. A car had crashed into the garage, and there was blood on the front porch. The milkman was considering this day as the most exciting and rewarding of his whole career. If only his wife had not sulkingly left to visit her best friend when he offered the carefully prepared duck to their royal guest. The royality of whom she was, by the way, loath to admit. He would make it up to her, somehow, but for now he was snared in the dense web of history and fiction, he was in the middle of something big. Life was good.

Yet there was enough decency on guard to tell him that he ought to be worried about poor Mr. Postman.

"Poor Mr. Postman" he said to Hamlet. „whatever might have happened here?"

"I know not, nor do I care, we have more urgent things to discuss."

"Like what?"

"Like the future of fiction, good Horatio. Have the kindness to shut up and follow me."

*************

Meanwhile the commotion continued inside...

*************

„" will not." a voice boomed.

"Yes you will, Erik, and there's an end to it." a decisive female voice answered.

"No need..." interjected Mr. Postman. The scene was quite frightening. There was blood on his face and he had trouble focusing on the pair he had thus adressed, the phantom and his girlfriend, both terribly upset. There were also the French madames who were busy restoring their leader, Mrs. Postman, still in her queenly attire, to life, by attacking her with handkerchiefs and every now and then a little shriek. There was more blood on the gowns of the ladies. All in all a very gory scene, that Mr. Postman acknowledged as professionally interesting if a little unlikely.

"I have nothing to apologize for." The phantom interrupted these observations. "He upset you."

"No, he didn't. And you tried to strangle him!"

"Didn't."

"Did!" the maddened matrons insisted simultaneosly.

"His lips are blue Erik, and now say sorry, for it is his cellar we are currently living in. And you ruined his wife's laundry!" Christine cried, tears in her eyes.

"Laundry? This man is bleeding, can't you see that? There's blood all over the place, can't somebody call a doctor?" This was said by his psychologist, who currently served as his pillow, Harry noted. The shock inflicted upon him by the impact of the glass had done him a world of good. He felt terrible all in all, but it was a very different kind of terrible to what he had felt before. And it almost seemed as if there was a good reason for a not-too-expensive divorce hidden somewhere in the proceedings, although he had for the moment only a dim recollection of what was going on.

"That wasn't me!"

„No, it was my mother." a calm voice made itself heard. Emilia had been standing at the top of the stairs, where the little party had not been able to see her. Now that was a good reason, Harry thought. And he was so going to convince the judge to let Emilia live with him, she really was a girl to keep her head in an emergency.

"See?" The phantom muttered. "And it is not that much blood, head wounds tend to be a bit messy."

"Wait a minute, are those words?"

Harry took a moment to wonder what they were talking about, but his psychologist seemed to have worked it out alright.

"Now this is a surprise" she remarked, suddenly much less worried, which he was not shure he could appreciate, but with intense interest. "I would not have thought it possible that anyone could really be made out of words! It is a common enough phenomenon, I dare say, but I have not taken it quite as literally." She looked at him closely, an urge which seemed to be contagious, for even the moody matrons stopped their wailing to take an interest in his head wound. There was a moment of stunned silence, then his wife, who had seemingly recovered from her fainting fit said with some decision: "If there's anything useful flowing out of him, I get half of the shares when it gets published." The psychologist mustered her with some disgust, but nonetheless grabbed a vase from the sideboard behind her and held it to Mr. Postman's head. He in the meantime had some trouble keeping track of the conversation. Emilia took pity of him.

"Well, dad, there are words coming out of your head, just look. At first they were quite red, but now they look more like the common printed variety." she observed.

"And they make sense, too!" the psychologist interrupted excidedly, peering into the vase.

"Now that's something I can hardly believe!" his wife said, but nonetheless looked closely at the pseudo-blood on her dress.

"So, what do I say?" Harry inquired, nettled that his vision was too blurred to see for himself.

Everyone was too engrossed in his literary output to pay him any attention.

"This is good, this is really good!" the psychologist exclaimed suddenly. "I'll be damned if this is not going to be a bestseller!"

* * *


End file.
